


Taking it to Heart

by AlibiNonsense



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Canon Dialogue, Episode: Taking on ANXIETY with Lilly Singh!!, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Internal Conflict, Internal Monologue, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide mentioned in a positive light, This is an in-universe explanation, Why is Virgil so OOC in this episode?, introspective, not the author's opinion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:14:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27070300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlibiNonsense/pseuds/AlibiNonsense
Summary: Thomas, who’s known among his friends and around the internet for being a good person, for being as inoffensive as a person can be, hates him. And, if Thomas hates him, who’d disagree?(Some small part of Virgil wonders what he’s done to deserve this. But the rest of him doesn’t question it. The rest of him knows they were born wrong and nothing can be done.)((And Thomas called him ‘it’ again.))
Comments: 3
Kudos: 29





	Taking it to Heart

“Hi.” It’s a small flick of the fingers of a greeting and a smirk he’s pretending to believe. He’s confident. He is. He _is_. He’s just… finding it hard today. And he’s feeling more lonely than usual… so he comes out with the smirk and the nonchalance and the pretence. (Because sometimes, if he’s cocky enough (lonely enough), he can almost pretend he’s better at something than Prince. Better at acting. At pretending. Maybe. (He isn’t.) But maybe. Because at least _he_ can delude himself into liking a bit of himself. Even if no-one else does. Ever. So he says ‘hi’ with a smirk on his face and pretends Thomas believes him.)

Naturally Thomas jumps out of his skin and looks angry he even exists.

“Oh, I’m sorry, was I not wanted at this exact second?” He puts his face in a hand like he doesn’t care (and he knows from Logic that people touch their faces when they lie but, if Logic remembers from when they read it on Wikipedia that one time, Thomas probably also remembers, and he’s going to notice and know that Virgil’s lying through his teeth and that Virgil knows he’s not wanted; that he’s _never_ wanted, that he’s hated, that he even hates himself and hates himself for hating himself and for how pathetic it all is, and back all the self-loathing goes into Thomas, helping nobody and he hates himself for that as well).

“Oh, for crying out loud,” says Thomas. “Please welcome my anxiety!” And he says it through gritted teeth.

“’Sup,” says Virgil, lounging back, (because that’s confident body language isn’t it? they learnt that in Thomas’s drama class) and takes the welcome because he knows it’s the only kind he’s going to get (ever. even from himself).

“I don’t get it. I was just making a YouTube video! There’s literally nothing to be anxious about!”

“Aren’t those the best times for me to show up?” says Virgil, hamming up the confidence he doesn’t feel to disguise the fact he doesn’t feel safe lounging for more than a second and that’s he’s leaning forward again. Leaning forward again and trying to stop himself burying his head in his knees and wrapping his arms around his legs. Touching his face _again_ , but hopefully in a confident way. Hopefully it doesn’t look like he’s unsure of himself. Hopefully Thomas won’t realise. Hopefully, hopefully, _hopefully_ , and it’s all too much to rely upon for something not to go wrong-

“I was even just _saying_ how relaxed I was _feeling_!”

Hopefully the fact Thomas is angry will help him forget Virgil’s entire role in his life is, by definition, to be ‘pathetically scared’. Although perhaps… “Ah, but that’s when you start wondering why you _do_ feel all relaxed!”

The perfect alibi. If he acts like he’s sort of a shepherd of anxiety rather than the actual personification of it (and that phrasing sounds so overly poncey it makes him cringe to think of) then maybe Thomas will buy that Virgil’s the powerful entity of fear and not just some scared, sad kid. “You don’t usually feel this way, so what are you doing different? What are you doing _wrong_? What are you _forgetting_ to do?” All exactly what Virgil’s worrying about expressed out loud and delivered like a Disney villain… although the likelihood of Princey letting it have any effect on Thomas is slim, what with his bravery and his ego _and his locking him out of everything_ _and his hating him_ … Is it good that it won’t affect Thomas? It’s good, right? Probably. (On second thoughts, not a Disney villain. Disney villains are suave and cool and collected, usually, and none are like him. Not even the very worst are like him. He is worse than anything Disney could come up with.)

“Ok, stop it! _Stop_ it!”

Or does it affect him? Is that him being affected? On the one hand, powerlessness is the same as helplessness and helplessness is terrifying… on the other, power is terrifying in itself. Influence over somebody. Influence over feelings and emotions. The power to crush and warp within a fist. The power to… it’s making him sweat thinking about it. He doesn’t know how Morality does it. “Sorry kid, but this is what I _do_!” Acting. Pretending. Being bigger than he is. He can do that at least. (For a bit. He’ll fail eventually. He always does.)

Except he’s already failed. The voice. Over the top. Slightly diva. Roman-esque. The two hands on the knee. The... It’s making him cringe just thinking about it. It didn’t come off right. Thomas already hates him, but now he’s probably cringing for him too. Virgil’s certainly cringing. Why are all his decisions mistakes?

Oh God. Thomas is gesturing.

“...but _sometimes_ it just _shows up-_ ”

“Yo.” Pretending to type. Because if he looks up at Thomas he’s just going to cringe again. And not stop. And _why_ did he have to say _‘yo’_? It’s not even something he would _say_! But apparently now it is because he’s just said it. Do people think he thinks it sounds cool? Do people think he’s just constantly trying to be cool all the time and failing miserably? Because yes. Because that’s exactly it. Because he doesn’t know what’s cool – just that being cool is the only way to not die of embarrassment at everything he does and says – until whatever he does or says is done or said, and _then_ he knows it’s cool or not cool. (Always the latter. Always wrong. Or cringey. Or something. He should stop trying.)

“...and ruins whatever peace I have! Like, I’m kinda getting fed up... with it. There has got to be some way _out_ of it!”

((And Thomas called him ‘it’ again.))

“Hoo boy!” he grins, leaning forward. (Back to pretending again. Hiding behind confidence he doesn’t possess.) “I would like to see you try!” And perhaps then he’d be banished and sucked up into the ether and never seen again. Better for everybody, probably. He’d do it himself if he could figure it out, but every attempt he’s tried so far has just resulted in Thomas getting anxious again because can Virgil do anything without panicking? No. No he can’t. So, if Thomas can get rid of him for good, that would suit everybody. Preferably all of him. Preferably yesterday. “You can’t just _quit_ me.” _(Please prove me wrong. Please. I want to disappear. I want to feel nothing. Nobody would cry. Please. I want to forget everything I ever pretended to be and everything I tried to be and everything I was.)_

_((...but it hurts that you would do that...))_

“Prince dude!” says Thomas out of nowhere, closing his eyes and pointing, like Princey wouldn’t come anyway, drawn to the promise of attention like a moth to flame.

“Hello! You summoned me!”

Great. The one person who hates him even more than Thomas. It shouldn’t still hurt, watching Thomas light up at Roman’s appearance and start gesturing in excitement instead of frustration. Watching them play off each other and cheer each other up just by being there. Watching. Because the mood will surely plummet once Roman realises he’s there.

It shouldn’t hurt.

It still hurts.

“Hey there Princey.”

“Ookay, I can’t stand that guy.”

And he’s right. Face falling. A disgusted expression. Virgil’s fault. Again.

“Tell me about it.”

And Thomas’s mirrors it. Thomas, who’s known among his friends and around the internet for being a good person, for being as inoffensive as a person can be, hates him. And, if Thomas hates him, who’d disagree?

(Some small part of Virgil wonders what he’s done to deserve this. But the rest of him doesn’t question it. The rest of him knows they were born wrong and nothing can be done.)

Prince squirms and winces. “Well,” he says, “getting rid of... _that_...” (Pointing to Virgil like he’s a piece of abandoned gum.) “is a tall order.”

“What should I do?” asks Thomas. He looks more on edge, probably having thought getting rid of Virgil would be as easy as taking out Thursday’s trash; unhappy to have him around any longer than he has to. Virgil can sympathise even as it breaks him. He hates himself too.

Princey doesn’t think for long. “Well this might be time for you to get creative-” Predictably as always.

(It won’t help. He’s gone to Remus for help before: Remus, who’s unrestrained and unflinching at the idea of Virgil dying without saying goodbye and who thinks of everything even the worst things, and Remus had just cackled and slapped his backside and told him they’d rot together in the earth, still conscious, for eternity, and had given Virgil nightmares for weeks. Roman has no chance. Roman’s limited to unicorns and rainbows.)

Not that Thomas knows (or wants to know) about Remus yet, but even Logic would have been better. At least Logic is unflinching.

But no. Roman. Who won’t kill him. Who’ll just mock him and leave him to live, even though that’s worse.

“-Travel somewhere in your mind to bring in recruitment.”

“True.”

“Ha!” he blusters. Lounged across the stairs. (Not feeling it.) “You would need some _super_ heavy-duty recruitment-”

Except he’s suddenly sat sideways in a plastic chair in someone else’s house. He’s suddenly sat sideways in a plastic chair in someone else’s house and he has no idea where he is or whose house this is. He has no idea. It’s a hand squeezing the breath out of him: the fact someone can just _lift_ him and _place_ him somewhere according to their whims, and he’s _powerless_ , and he has _no idea who did this_. Who he’d even try to fight. If he’d even have a chance. In Thomas’s house he’s counted the exits and he’s worked out how long it would take for him to get to them in the case of emergencies and he’s made escape plans (which would all fail if put to the test, but it makes him a little calmer to have them), whereas, in this house, he has no idea. Doesn’t know where he’d escape from if the house caught on fire or if a murderer broke through the door with an axe, or someone locked all the doors and started filling the house with water, or he was thrown into a cavity in the walls and bricked in and left to suffocate, or if there’s even an exit, and it’s not like anyone would care enough to rescue him, and he’d die alone, choking or burning or slowing running out of air, and Thomas and the other sides would just leave him there, knowingly, even Morality, who hates him too. Morality who, unlike the other sides, also pities him. Is scared of him. Hasn’t told him yet.

“Where are we?” is all he says, barely managing to keep from spewing out every word. And he’s technically a figment of Thomas’s imagination, so who knows if he’d actually vomit. Maybe he would. Maybe it would be loud and burpy and embarrassing and stain not just his pants but this stranger’s floor.

Out of the corner of his vision there’s a very familiar looking-

“Wha...t?” Oh God, Lilly Singh. He’d stain Lilly Singh’s floor and she’d probably make a video about it and he’d be laughed at by her millions of followers and also by Thomas, who’d stop fearing him and just start laughing at him too whenever he appeared.

“It’s your _Girl_ _Superwoman_!” says Lilly, and winks.

For a moment, for a pathetic moment, he thinks she likes him.

Then Thomas shouts “Lilly!” in incredulous relief and Virgil remembers that it’s hopeless. She’s Thomas’s friend: she’ll take Thomas’s side.

“What’s up, Thomas?” She looks pleased to see him.

“Well...” says Thomas, “long story short-”

And, with a sinking feeling (boarded up by walls and barricades; fences and facades (and breaking and breaking and breaking and breaking, as quickly as he can fix them)), Virgil listens, as Thomas, in one sentence, tears him to pieces. And he plasters on a bored expression (crumpled mouth flattened; jaw controlled; eyelids lowered; posture loose) to meet Lilly’s scorn. (Because he’s worthless. Because he doesn’t deserve to get the pity even a hurt expression would bring.)

“Oh, you’re the guy,” she says.

(He’s not. Her anxiety’s hers and hers alone. He’s Thomas’s. But that’s enough to deserve everything she’s saying. It’s not her he’s affected – probably. But he makes Thomas quiet sometimes. Makes him curl up under the comforter at night and scrunch in on himself and pretend everything is ok even though it isn’t. Makes him cry. Makes him breathe and breathe and _breathe_ and _gasp_ and _gasp_ and _breathe_ until his vision spots and makes him dither about answering the phone and stutter and palm-sweat and fear and startle at noises outside the window and miss opportunity after opportunity because Virgil is too scared to step foot out of the house. Virgil deserves everything.)

She carries on and he’s rolling his eyes. Not looking at them even though he can’t not listen. Playing pretend that he doesn’t hate himself even as he’s filing away every word. Adding to the growing list he’ll lie awake thinking about until Thomas lets him die. Every accusation another finger bitten down to the quick; another night of knees hugged to chest instead of going to sleep; another day just lying on his bed and staring up at the ceiling because everything is _wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong_ with him, and he is _empty_ inside, except for that deep gnawing pit of hating that’s forty-nine percent fear and fifty-one percent regret.

Listening until he can’t listen anymore. Until he turns around with a fake smile and says, “Look, it’s my job, ok?” Because that’s the only defence he’ll allow himself. “A little blood pumping’s good for the circulatory system.”

Because if he acts big and scary, maybe one day he’ll wake up and not care. Wake up and be someone else.

“Ok, we’re not talking about a _little_ , dude.”

“Well actually, Lilly, that is why I brought myself here,” says Thomas. “To see if, maybe, you knew of some ways I could... bring him down.” The change is so jarring; the voice suddenly so hard and cold, eyes gone from Lilly to him and, just as quick, friendly to glaring, and Virgil can’t think beyond a weak, “Pff, yeah right,” for reply, because a chunk of him has gone missing and the person who should be the the only one to _get_ him will never... Block. No.

“Destroying anxiety can be really tough,” says Lilly, like, if she could, she’d enjoy it. “But bringing it down can be easier through a few different ways.”

“What do you mean?” asks Thomas. He looks all too interested.

They’re discussing getting rid of him like he’s not there. Alright, so he knows it would be better without him. Knows intimately how damaging he can be to the psyche (he lives there, after all; covering up the cracks in the walls of his heart with posters he thinks he’ll maybe one day care about for themselves rather than for how well they can hide how he’s falling apart), but it still, it aches to hear. To know that he’s unwanted by Thomas.

.

It takes an hour and a half to finish Lilly’s montage of techniques, and, by the end of it, Virgil is hurting and tired. He plays along with what they want him to do, looking stupid the entire time. Looking pithy. Looking simple, dismissible, ridiculous. Half the things are things Logic likes him to do _anyway_ , and the dread that Logic will berate him about letting Thomas get complacent again, on top of the disgust Thomas and Lilly show him every time they actually acknowledge his existence, on top of the energy drain of being around people, leaves Virgil almost hopeful by the end of it all that he’ll drop dead from exhaustion.

No. Instead, Thomas clicks his fingers and they are back in the living room again. And Virgil is on the stairs, like he always is (weak and vulnerable), and Thomas is in the middle of the room, like he always is (brimming: Roman’s confidence and Morality’s energy), and Virgil is upset and angry. Scared. Spitting with it (vitriol, ugly words, teeth) because, like a cornered animal, he uses all the weapons at his disposal.

“Whatever,” he snaps. “That was Lilly. You don’t have what it takes.” Even though Lilly, a relative stranger, can make him feel dizzy by blocking him out of a head he doesn’t live in.

“Oh yeah?”

“Mmhm!” Moving one foot to the other like he’s readying himself for a fist-fight. He’s not. It’s bravado. It’s lies. He’s shaking. He’s terrified. And Thomas is confident. And Thomas hates him.

Thomas takes a deep breath and already Virgil is unsteady. “I have anxiety,” he says. “There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s something I can control-”

Virgil feels it. Forceful. Dizzying. It’s the void of Thomas not needing him anymore. “No,” he says.

“You are thoughts I create, questions I ask, fears I have,” says Thomas. “Nothing more.” And he’s smiling, and Virgil is nothing; no-one; reduced to parts. “Byee!”

“Fine,” says Virgil. Points. (To steady himself.) “But I’ll be back.”

“I mean I’m sure you will be, but I’ll be ready.” Confident. He _doesn’t_ need him. He never has.

And Virgil can’t say anything past stumbled mincemeat. “-Ok. Well. You. Mmmngh-” Weak and unconvincing. And yet it would be worse to just stay there saying nothing, feeling his whole heart drip veins and muscle and hope into his empty chest cavity, trying to keep up the bluster and the act, when he could be licking his wounds in his bedroom.

So he goes. Leaves. Sinks down. To lick his wounds in his bedroom and pretend he doesn’t exist. It’s better that way, anyway. That he doesn’t exist.


End file.
